Results
by It'sTimeToDance
Summary: Sex, drugs, and rock n' roll. They don't mention the AIDs part. Pre-RENT.


**Author's Note: **This will probably be short. I'm just bored and feeling like killing someone. Did you know that's illegal?

This whole April bit probably happened in a completely different way, but I'm not very devoted to this movie/musical, so I can't say I care too deeply.

* * *

_"Your living in America,_

_leave your conscious at the tone"_

"Miss?"

April's eyes twitched, and a rather homely nurse loomed over her. "Hm?"

"Your test results," she sniffed, looking down her long nose and robotically shoving a manila envelope into April's hands, "open it outside. I don't want a scene."

April felt her heart twist into impossible angles, her stomach clenching and desperatly shoving her last five meals up her throat. She gingerly slung her bag over her shoulder and left the clinic, passing another girl watching her with wide eyes, younger then her.

She shoved the folder in her bag as she walked, pulling a cigarette and keeping the lighter against it's tip until it was half burned. She aimlessly wondered the sidewalk, finding a brown bricked, windowless building to lean against.

She had to leave the clinic. She had to leave the clinnic because of test results. She had to leave the clinic because of test results that would probably send her into a fit of rage and despair. That's pretty fucked up.

The folder shook in her fist, and it seemed to open itself. She saw nothing but lines and lines of words that she didn't understand. She anxiously scanned them until she found it, right at the top, bold and black;

**HIV/AIDS Test Results: Positive**

Yeah.

"Shit..." she choked, "shit."

She had fucking AIDs, like everyone else in the city.

Roger and her, they could never find more then a needle at a time, and sometimes, it'd be too much to bother trying. It's not like this was cancer or something. Nobody _knew _about it last year. Nobody knew about nine months ago. It just came, and took everyone on West end with it, like an over consuming housemate. It didn't even say hello.

Fuck you, AIDs.

What did they give you, when you tested positive? Meds and twelve months to live. You got it from shooting and fucking. That's all she knew.

She had shooted and fucked, very recently, with one man. One. And there was no way--no way--he could have avoided it.

She squeezed the inside of her elbow, and itched for something. She'd have to quit it, she thought, Her and Roger. They'd have to quit. The last she had was last night and she was already dying...fuck, dying...she's dying anyway. Did it hurt, going like that?

"Not gonna find out..." she whispered to herself, tears stinging her eyes like acid, "no way...."

--

Roger Davis came to his loft with a headache and a sore the size of a grapefruit on the bottom of his foot, and he was not pleased.

"'m home," he mumbled, dropping his guitar bag to the counter. The sky was orange, and the city smog made it seem sullen. He stomped towards the bathroom.

The door opened and closed, and Mark stood in front of it, his face paler then usual and his hands shaking, "Roger...don't go in there, okay? I'll call an ambulence and it'll be fine, okay? Okay?" He seemed panicked, and did not believe his own words. He pushed Roger back with a weak shove of his wrist.

Roger squinted, suddenly more irritated then curious, "What're you talking about? Move it."

Mark was, after fragile bickering on his end, shoved to the side by his roommate, and Roger popped the door open. "Shit!"

It was not a nice bathroom, but it was generally some shade of white. The bathtub was white, and the walls were white. Red stood in dark contrast, and the grime covered tub was over flowing with watered blood. Gracefully placed, porcelain arms hung off the side, a bright, almost gracefully sliced cuts ran from her elbow to the tip of her palm.

"April?" he croaked.

The bathroom mirror hung beside her, and a hand cut scrap of paper was taped to it, along with a yellow, hastily scribbled post it note.

The scrap was the remnants of an official document, and it had an AIDs stamp in bold lettering in the center. The post it, now, Roger could see, littered with bloody finger prints, read three words that, in any other circumstances, would have made no sense;

"We got it."

* * *

**Author's Note: **I'm gonna get alot of angry reviews from countless RENTheads for this, I can feel it.


End file.
